


Where Is My Mind

by OfTeaAndJumpers



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 19:07:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11766414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfTeaAndJumpers/pseuds/OfTeaAndJumpers
Summary: Floki sits on the ground. He has draped his lanky arms around the lifeless form of Athelstan. He is crying, and his lips are attached to Athelstan's neck, in cruel mockery of a lover's kiss. Ragnar cries out.“What did you do, Floki?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As I was devastated beyond repair with Ragnar's loss and Athelstan's death in S03E06, I had to mend it at least in my head. This is how it plays out. Indulge me.
> 
> I know I am very late to the show and this ship has long sailed and sunk. But not for me. S4 is not the same without their friendship *sigh*
> 
> In my ideal world, Athelstan and Floki become friends. That's what fanfiction is for, right?
> 
> I chose the title from the Pixies song "Where is my mind", and I listened to the piano version (by Maxence Cyrin, check it out on YT, it's beautiful) while writing this. It always reminds me of Floki, the forest creature.
> 
> I hope you like my little story. Any comment is much appreciated. Comments are love! Please point out any language mistakes as I am no native speaker and this is unbeta'ed.
> 
> Enjoy!

“I knew you would come, Floki.“

 

Athelstan's voice is calm. It floats through the room, serene, otherworldly even. The carefully spoken syllables lap at Floki's burning ears like waves on a blistering shore.

 

Athelstan is kneeling on the ground. His back is facing the door where Floki stands, motionless. Candles throw their flickering flames across the priest's bare torso. Floki steps closer until he can almost touch Athelstan's back. Bones and sinewy muscles under pale velvety skin. A sinful and yet innocent sight to behold.

 

Floki has trouble breathing. The ugly lump of hatred and jealousy has grown and grown in his throat until he cannot swallow around it any more. He is bone-tired of listening to the multitude of whispers and shouts in his head. Commands from the Gods. Pleas from Ragnar. 

 

… _Floki, listen to us … Honor your faith … Kill the Christian ..._

 

… _Floki, you hear me ... Athelstan is my friend … I love him as much as I love you ... I will not tolerate bad blood between you ..._

 

It drives him mad.

 

He does the only thing that will drown out the cacophony of words. He is taking action. The priest has to die, and Ragnar will finally,  _finally_ come to his senses again.

 

“Do you know why I am here, priest?” 

 

The last word is spat, drips of dribble land on Athelstan's back. He does not even flinch.

 

“You are going to kill me.” 

 

His voice. So still. So accepting. He will not even put up a fight. Not that he has a chance against Floki. Floki, with his axe hanging limply by his side, with his knife hidden in the back of his trousers. With the strength of a Norseman, a tree climber, a boat builder. Friend to a king, instrument of the Gods.

 

He takes one step further and reaches out to touch Athelstan's dark curls. Soon, they will be matted with his blood. Blood that will spill from this pale throat, will spatter onto Floki's face, will wash away the false god. Floki smiles. It's dark and grievous and triumphant and disturbing.

 

He is about to raise his axe when Athelstan speaks up.

 

“Tell me, Floki.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Do you think killing me will bring you closer to Ragnar?”

 

“This is not about Ragnar or me.” The words are out before Floki can stop himself. “I am simply obeying my Gods. We do not want a Christian priest here who is poisoning our king's thoughts.”

 

“Don't you think that is up to Ragnar to decide?”

 

“Ragnar's thoughts are clouded. I have to decide for him.” 

 

Athelstan leaves his kneeling position and swiftly turns to face Floki. He stands upright, face slightly upturned to look Floki in the eyes.

 

“I cannot change your mind, Floki. And I have made my peace with God. If it is my fate to die by your hands, so be it. But I ask one last favour of you.”

 

Floki wants to spit at the priest, wants to tell him that he is not in the position to make demands. He swallows back the harsh words. They taste bitter in his throat. He nods.

 

“I ask you, Floki, not to hide behind your Gods. Just this once. Take responsibility for your actions. Imagine fate or the Gods hold no power over you. What are your motives for killing me?”

 

Floki bends his head. His kohl-rimmed gaze meets Athelstan's sea-blue eyes. Almost black in the fading candlelight, they are a bottomless ocean of warmth and forgiveness. Floki feels himself drowning in them. He is swallowed by inexplicable emotions. Words not even fully formed in his mind spill over his lips, in a hoarse whisper.

 

“I was Ragnar's closest friend. Until he brought you back from England. Now he only confides in you. He even prays with you. He seeks your advice. He gave you the bracelet. And you threw it away. You betrayed him, his trust in you. You betrayed all of us.”

 

“No.” Athelstan holds out his right arm. And there it is. Ragnar's bracelet. Floki gasps. 

 

“But I saw you throw it into the water.”

 

“I was about to do so, as a sign that I have fully embraced my Lord again. But then I realised Ragnar's gift was a token of his friendship. I am still his friend, and will always be. There can be friendship and love between men regardless of their faith. Don't you think this is a great gift of the Gods?”

 

Floki makes a sound then, half cackling, half sobbing. A single tear runs down his cheek, smearing the kohl.

 

“I hate you, Athelstan! And I curse myself that I am not able to hate you with all my heart. Ragnar loves you. I can see why. You give him everything that I cannot. You satisfy his curiosity. You spark his intelligence. Your kindness matches his. You are like two sides of a blade, one cannot be without the other.”

 

Floki's voice fades. He seems stunned by what he just said. Athelstan has a look of incredulity on his face. Obviously he did not expect Floki to speak his heart. They look at each other again, something resembling acceptance in their eyes.

 

But then Floki's eyes harden. It is as if his mind is clouded again by an invisible veil. Athelstan sighs.

 

“I have to kill you, priest. Ragnar will thank me when he has returned to our Gods.”

 

He throws one last look at Athelstan who stands before him, head held up high. Athelstan does not look away, and a smile plays on his lips. He looks as if he is no longer of this world.

 

Floki raises his axe above his head and lets it fall with a piercing shriek.

 

Blood.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry.

“Have you seen Athelstan?” Ragnar asks Aslaug after he has returned from kissing his sons goodnight.

“No. Are you not able to make one step without your beloved monk?”

Aslaug's voice is even, her head held high with pride as ever. Only from her sparkling eyes is Ragnar able to see that she is furious. He knows, he has neglected her lately. And he is unable to feel bad about it. But he is not proud about it either. He shoots her an annoyed look.

“Athelstan is my friend. I am concerned because it seems he is not welcome here any more.”

“Why should he be welcome? A Christian priest, luring my husband away from my family?” Her tone is bitter.

Ragnar does not deign this with an answer. He is tired of arguing with her. Not for the first time does he wish that Lagertha was still his wife. Lagertha loves Athelstan nearly as much as he does, in her very own way. She welcomed him in their household, entrusted him with their children. Invited him into their bed. Accepted that Ragnar made him a free man. And he loved her all the more for it. 

Now he feels as if the walls are closing in on his best friend. People whom he has always considered friends are turning against him because they cannot accept that a Christian priest lives among them. They cannot accept that Ragnar is interested in this Christian god, even acknowledges his existence. They think when the priest will be gone, their king will be back to his, their, old ways. They cannot understand that once Ragnar has drunk from Athelstan's cup of knowledge, has learnt about new lands, different faiths, languages, customs and people, that he cannot simply go back to Kattegat's secluded life. That he will forever be thirsty for more knowledge. That Athelstan is the only man who is able to still that thirst. 

And they are unable to understand that, over time, Ragnar has become infatuated with Athelstan. With the gentle intonation of his voice. The soft black curls framing his angelic face. The raven-black beard unable to hide the delicacy of his cheekbones. His incredibly soft, innocent and wise blue eyes. His intoxicating earthy and yet heady scent. The muscles slowly changing his slim frame after months of training. The way he is constantly challenging Ragnar with his questions, answers, tales. The way he is trusting, but not naïve. The resilience and unpretentious courage that helped him survive in Kattegat's community.

The way he smiles at Ragnar. A smile that is reserved only for his best friend.

He has not spotted Athelstan in the great hall. Nor Floki. This does not bode well.

Ragnar leaves the hall in great strides. Pitch-black darkness welcomes him outside. It is a moonless night. He knows the way to Athelstan's cabin by heart, having spent much a rainy day with his friend inside, lost in discussions. Once, only once, did he dare to press his lips to Athelstan's surprised mouth. The chaste kiss left him so elated and confused that he has not tried it again since. 

Ragnar approaches the cabin when he hears a wailing sound inside, and a great clatter, like someone has just dropped a heavy weapon. He storms through the door and stops dead at the sight before him.

Floki sits on the ground. He has draped his lanky arms around the lifeless form of Athelstan. He is crying, and his lips are attached to Athelstan's neck, in cruel mockery of a lover's kiss. Ragnar cries out.

“What have you done, Floki?”

Floki does not answer. His dark eyes are bloodshot and impossibly sad. His lips are stained with red. He licks Athelstan's wound one last time, and the bleeding fades to a faint trickle.

Ragnar kneels down next to them and, with a gesture so tender Floki's heart breaks all over, lifts Athelstan's head from Flokis shoulder. There's little blood on the floor and on Athelstan's torso. The axe Floki has brought down on the priest was averted at the last possible moment, merely grazing Athelstan's neck. 

“I could not do it.” 

Floki's voice is so full of pent-up self-loathing, it threatens to spill over at any moment. “I cannot even hate him. Not when you love him, Ragnar. I can only hate myself that I am not able to be what he is to you.”

He openly cries now. His tears flow down his face and into Athelstan's hair. Without thinking, Ragnar brushes away the teardrops with this thumb and then gives him an awkward embrace, while his other arm is busy supporting Athelstan's neck. 

“I don't expect you to be friends with him, Floki, if for you it feels like a betrayal to our Gods. But please accept that he is my friend. That I love him. As much as I love you. I cannot bear to loose any of you. You hear me?”

Floki nods.

“Very well then. Let's put Athelstan to bed. He is not heavily injured, but he needs rest. I will stay with him.”

While Ragnar is about to lift his friend from his sitting position, Athelstan opens his eyes. He sees Ragnar, then shifts his gaze over to Floki.

“It seems I am not dead, after all.” he murmurs, a small smile creeping into his voice. 

“No, you're not.” Ragnar smiles at him. “But you need rest. I shall stay here with you in case you need anything.” He picks up a wet cloth from the floor and wipes away the blood from Athelstan's neck and breast. The tender ministrations extract a content sigh from his friend.

Floki looks uncomfortable. He is unsure whether he should stay or leave.

“I will return to my home. Helga will worry about me.” he says awkwardly.

“You do that. We talk tomorrow.” Before Floki can leave, Ragnar is on his feet, taking Floki's hand. 

“You did the right thing, my friend.” He wipes away another tear that threatens to roll down to Floki's lips. There are smears of black on his face, making him look like a wild forest animal. It's the way he loves his Floki best. What he was about to do tonight was unthinkable. But in the end, he held Ragnar's friendship above anything else. It is all that matters, thinks Ragnar, as he bids Floki farewell and returns to Athelstan.

Athelstan lies on the mattress in the corner and is nearly asleep. Ragnar joins him under the woolen blankets and wraps his arms around him. Athelstan still feels a bit clammy, but that will soon change, with Ragnar's body heat enveloping him. 

“Ragnar.” A whisper.

“Yes?”

“I was prepared to die tonight. I knew Floki would come. What I don't know is why in the end he chose to spare me.”

“Because he realised I would never forgive him for killing you. He finally saw that I love him no less just because I love you.”

“You do?” A coquettish fluttering of eyelashes accompanies this. Ragnar grins and nudges him.

“You know I do. Now go to sleep, priest.” The last word is spoken with the greatest affection.

Athelstan can barely keep his eyes open, but he manages to bring his face closer to Ragnar. For one fleeting moment, his lips brush against Ragnar's, and there is that heady feeling again. Once again, it leaves Ragnar blissfully dizzy.

“Good night, my friend.”


End file.
